"I didn't make up the mare, miss, before comin' out wid ye," he says, mildly, telling this lie without a blush.,
"Oh not for ever so long," returns she, with much and heartless unconcern. (His spirits sink to zero.) "Certainly not until Friday," she goes on, carelessly. (As this is Wednesday, his spirits once more rise into the seventh heaven.) "Or Saturday, or Sunday, or perhaps some day next week," she says, unkindly.,
"Miss Scully, is it you?" he says, at length; "and here at this hour?".
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